Living with the Dead (6 page)

HOPE

After getting all she could from the officer in the coffee shop, Hope made a pit stop at the
True News
office. Checking in, getting her mail... Hardly critical under the circumstances, but if Robyn was a fugitive and Hope was her best friend in L.A., eventually the cops were going to find their way to her door. And when they did, she might need to prove she'd been going about her day, business as usual.

After that token appearance, Hope and Karl returned to the club. He stood watch as she circled the exterior trying to find the place closest to the crime scene. If she could find it, she might catch a vision of what had happened last night. It took some fine-tuning to pinpoint the spot, but eventually the vision came.

Hope saw a dark room, with Portia leaning over what looked like a table. Doing lines, it seemed. She was anxious, worried about being caught, feeling guilty, telling herself this would be the last time. At a noise, Portia had jumped, a small burst of chaos exploding. She wheeled to see someone in the doorway.

"Hello?" she said, forcing attitude into her voice. "This room's taken."

Whatever she saw, Hope didn't. A vision wasn't like the reconstruction of an event, where she could move around and see the whole thing. It was a single-camera scene. What she saw is what she got – whatever angle, clarity and length.

As usual, her focus was on the victim.

"I need to use your cell phone," the intruder said. It sounded like a woman, the voice pitched high with stress, the waves flowing off her twice as strong as Portia's.

"Like hell. There's a pay phone in the – "

"I need your cell phone."

"Buy your own, bitch. Now get the hell out before I call my bodyguard."

"You didn't bring one. You only take one when you want to show off."

Portia inhaled sharply, chaos blasting off her. "Wh – what – "

"It's called a gun. Now give me the fucking cell phone."

Portia opened her mouth. Only a split-second shriek escaped. Then the chaos surged, so strong it blocked the rest of the vision. Hope had to replay it twice to see the ending. Portia started to scream, reeling back, then the first bullet hit and the scream died in her throat. A second bullet struck as she was already going down, the silenced shots barely more than loud puffs of air.

It was over quickly, the chaos surge brief but powerful, that final explosion... exquisite.

The first time Hope had seen a vision of a recent death, there'd been no pleasure in it. Too intense. Too uncomfortable. She'd taken solace in that. It was one thing to get a thrill from hearing strangers arguing. But to enjoy another's death? She wouldn't know how to deal with that.

Soon she had to. As her powers grew, she started to enjoy death. It was the purest, most perfect chaos imaginable. The ultimate high.

Even if she stopped chasing weird tales for
True News
and investigating rogue supernaturals for the council, she couldn't escape the experience of death. Passing the site of a recent car crash was enough. Short of locking herself into a room for life, she had no choice – she had to learn to deal with it.

With Karl's help, she was learning to accept the demon in her. She'd come to think of it that way: the demon. That didn't mean it was a separate entity – she could never make that mistake. It was as much part of her as Karl's wolf was of him. But it didn't need to rule who she was. She had to learn to appease it and control it. Accept the demon, master it and use it to her advantage, to protect herself and help others.

If it sounded like she had it all worked out, she didn't. Intellectually, she understood the lessons Karl taught her about acceptance and control. But that didn't keep her from feeling like a ghoul.

When Karl came looking for her behind the club, she was huddled against the alley wall, hugging her knees, forcing herself to replay the vision over and over, through that endless cycle of bliss and self-loathing until she'd wrested every last clue from it, fighting and cursing when he hefted her over his shoulder and carried her away.

So, no, she didn't have it worked out. And she was starting to think she never would.

ROBYN

There had been a moment, after waking on the park bench, when Robyn had reflected back on the events of the night and decided the answer was simple. She'd cracked.

After one too many glasses of champagne, she'd gone into that dark hall at Bane, and like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, she'd emerged in some hellish alternate reality of her mind's own making, where Portia had died, then Judd, and she was the primary suspect.

A shrink would claim the whole scenario was a subconscious manifestation of illogical guilt over Damon's death. Whether it was indeed a complete mental collapse or simply a drunken nightmare, she was relieved. A mental hospital she could deal with. Not like she hadn't expected to end up in one anyway.

Her relief lasted until she passed a newsstand outside the park and saw the newspaper headlines. It was like someone cut her power cord again, and she meandered for an hour, shocked, confused, lost... and thoroughly disgusted with herself for it.

A few years ago, when she and Damon had passed a poster for a book called
The Purpose Driven Life,
Damon joked it must have been written by Robyn's long-lost twin. She always had a purpose, a goal, a plan. Even on vacation, she never left without researching the locale and drawing up an itinerary. That didn't mean she scheduled every moment, but she'd hate to later hear someone talking about some hidden gem she'd missed.

In high school, she'd taken a test to identify where her strengths lay, and the answer came as a surprise to no one. Logical reasoning, organization and planning. Public relations might not have seemed the ideal fit for her, but it was. No matter what scrape a client got herself into, Robyn could say, "Give me a minute," and come up with a solution, usually two or three.

Now there was a citywide alert out for her, and here she was, wandering aimlessly, as if hoping someone would catch her and save her the trouble of taking action herself. When she heard a man call "Robyn," she turned to embrace her fate.

It was a testament to her mental state that it wasn't until the dark-haired man stopped three feet away from her that she recognized him.

"Karl?"

"It's all right." He moved forward slowly, hands outstretched, as if approaching a timid deer. "Hope sent me."

She nodded.

He took a cell phone from his pocket and held it out. "I'm going to take you to her. Do you want to call her? Check first?"

Robyn shook her head and let him lead her away.

They drove in silence to a motel. Karl parked right in front, checking to make sure no one was watching, then hustled her to the door.

Hope was inside. She closed and relocked the door as Karl strode past, scanning the dark, cool room, shades drawn.

You'd almost think they were harboring a murder suspect.

Robyn tried to laugh, but couldn't. Hope led her to the bed, where icy bottles of water, sandwiches and brownie bites waited. Robyn eyed the food, as if she could mentally will it into her hand. Hope handed her a bottle and told her to drink slowly. She did and it seemed to unstick her brain.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"We found out where that undercover officer lived," Hope said. "Was he a friend of yours?"

Undercover officer? Judd? So now she was the main suspect in a cop killing?

When Robyn didn't answer, Hope went on. Something about knowing Robyn wouldn't have taken a taxi when she might be wanted for murder, so she couldn't be more than a few miles from Judd's place.

It was plausible, she supposed. But that was still a lot of area to cover. And why leave Hope behind when two sets of eyes and legs could have searched twice as fast?

"We need to talk about what happened," Hope said.

"I didn't kill them."

"I know. But you need to tell us exactly what happened so we can figure out what to do."

Well, at least someone was taking charge and making plans.

Robyn told them everything. As she talked and drank and nibbled on a sandwich, the deadening layer of shock lifted enough for her to look around and realize the situation was real, and she couldn't take refuge in fantasies of madness.

"I should turn myself in," she said finally.

"You will... just not right now. Karl talked to a friend. He's a lawyer who specializes in this sort of problem."

There was a specialty in this?

"He advised us," Hope continued, "and, if we need him, he'll come down. He's in Oregon, but he's licensed to practice in California. Anyway, the main thing now is to keep you in L.A., just away from your apartment or anyplace you could be recognized. That way, we can say you weren't on the run, just in shock. But that excuse will only work for a day or two, so we have to work fast. We need to give the police another suspect – preferably the real killer."

"You're..." She looked from Hope to Karl. "You're going to solve this yourselves?"

Hope smiled. "Hey, I'm
True News
's weird tales girl, remember? Solving mysteries is my thing. Karl's helped me before. He used to be in security."

"I'm not sure..."

Karl spoke from across the room, his first words since they'd arrived. "You don't have a lot of options right now, Robyn."

Hope shushed him with a glare, but he was right, and his cold realism felt somehow more reassuring than Hope's bright optimism.

Hope cracked open a water bottle. "I can't promise we
will
solve it. But we're going to try, and if we're no closer tomorrow than we are right now, we'll get our friend's help, let you turn yourself in and keep on working. We have some leads already."

"You do? How?"

"Like I said, there's an advantage to having a tabloid reporter on your case. I have the perfect excuse for snooping, and people aren't nearly as reluctant to talk to the tabs as they let on." She took a long gulp of water. "There's a rumor that someone heard Portia arguing in that back hall. She was talking about a cell phone. And maybe something about a picture."

"Cell... ? Wait. Before she died, Portia mentioned her cell. I thought she wanted me to use it to call 911, but that didn't seem to be it."

"Her cell phone wasn't with her body. She had it earlier, didn't she?"

"She must have. I always swore it was surgically attached."

"What about pictures or photos? Does that ring a bell?"

"People were always taking Portia's picture. The only time
she
snapped shots was when she wanted to show something – a purse or an outfit she liked. She did send me one yesterday – from her cell actually – but it was just of Jasmine Wills."

"Jasmine?"

"In an ugly dress. Portia's been having this passive-aggressive feud with her, and she wanted me to send this picture to the tabloids."

"How big a deal
would
that be? I mean, I can't see anyone shooting Portia to stop her from getting a photo published, but maybe Jasmine tried to get it back, waved a gun and it went off. Sounds farfetched, but you did think the killer might have been a woman."

"At first. But Judd's killer was a young man, so maybe I was mistaken."

"That could have been a friend or someone Jasmine hired, after she realized you'd seen her." Hope shook her head. "Okay, that really
does
sound far-fetched."

Maybe, but people killed for less every day. Robyn had a scrapbook to prove it.

"We should look for more likely explanations," Karl said. "Was there anything else about the photograph? Was this girl holding something – drugs? Kissing someone's husband? Was there anything else in the frame? Something or someone Portia may have accidentally photographed?"

"I-I don't know. I didn't take a good look. It was just... Portia being silly. I filed it away, waiting to see whether she'd insist I send it."

"We're going to need to see that picture," Hope said. "Do you – ? Shit. You tossed your cell, didn't you?"

"Lost it," Robyn said. "But I downloaded the photo to my laptop. I do that at the end of the workday to keep all my messages in one place."

Hope smiled. "As organized as ever. Now we just need to get your laptop."

FINN

Finn had never been to a spa.

No, that wasn't true. He'd once had a crime scene at a spa. The ghost claimed to have been bludgeoned to death by her romantic rival as they awaited some hot new treatment guaranteed to make them irresistible to the D-list actor they were both pursuing. As it turned out, the young woman had been pawing through a shelf of discounted hair products when a massive bottle of conditioner had fallen and hit her in the head.

Finn doubted the ghost had intentionally lied. She'd been bending over, felt a blow and made up her own explanation. If her version made her death feel less pointless, she was welcome to it.

Today he was tracking down witnesses. The death of Portia Kane was a high-profile case. The death of Judd Archer was just as big – at least for the cops involved. Whether the two were connected remained to be proven. A team had been hastily assembled, pulling in resources from everywhere. Other detectives would work the Archer angle, in case his death was related to his undercover work. Finn would lead the team working on Portia Kane, which included finding Robyn Peltier. Another team member was handling the press side – that really wasn't Finn's thing.

He'd also assigned a pair of detectives to look into Robyn Peltier's life – conducting interviews, checking her apartment, gathering background. Her husband had been killed six months ago in Philadelphia. Shot to death. Finn doubted there was a connection, but he had people working on it.

As for him, he'd spent most of the day tracking down people who'd been at the club with Portia Kane. He'd started with Marla Jansen, gotten three names from her, found them, learned nothing but got another name, and so on. Half the time, all they could say was that they hadn't seen anything unusual, but you should talk to their good friend Tina. Ask for Tina's last name, though, and apparently their friendship hadn't reached the exchange of surnames stage.

Finally, Finn's persistence had paid off. He'd followed a trail to these two young women who'd been with Portia's crowd at Bane. Madelyn and Kendra. And they had a lead for him. Robyn Peltier hadn't gone to Bane alone. She'd brought a friend.

As for details on that friend, though, that's where things got fuzzy. They agreed she was eastern – from the eastern U.S. by her accent and from an Eastern ancestry by her looks. Middle Eastern or East Indian? They bickered over that until Finn assured them a final call wasn't necessary.

As for a name, neither had caught it. And they got into another fight because their friend "Chas" claimed he recognized the girl from some high-society charity ball back east a couple of years earlier. He'd mentioned a name, which they'd forgotten, except that it was "totally Anglo, like Jill Smith," which Madelyn claimed proved Chas was too wasted to see straight and had mistaken the girl for someone else. Kendra disagreed about the "wasted" part, but admitted Chas might have just been angling for an introduction to an attractive young woman.

An attractive young woman who had come with her boyfriend, as it turned out. Now
him
they remembered.

"He was white," Madelyn said. "Older. Maybe thirty-five. He looked like a banker or a stockbroker. A money guy. Portia was all over him. Normally not her type, but he was very fine... for his age."

"Was that a problem?"

"His age?"

"Portia being 'all over' this other young woman's boyfriend."

"She didn't care. Probably used to that. The culture, you know? Arranged marriages, multiple wives..."

Kendra sighed. "The girl was obviously as American as you."

Madelyn dismissed the idea with a snort. Finn wrapped it up and jumped to his own dismissal after getting this "Chas" guy's cell number.

He was in the outer room when a deep voice behind him said, "Whoa. Those chicks were brutal. Me
ow
."

A man stood across the room. Finn's cop eyes assessed him, spitting out vital stats. Roughly thirty. Six foot two. A hundred ninety pounds. African-American. Dark hair and eyes. Short beard.

"Look sharp," the man said. "Corporeal being at one o'clock."

Finn turned as Kendra hurried from the spa room, still dressed in her robe and turban. She shut the door behind her

"I wanted to say I think Chas did recognize that girl. Madelyn's just jealous 'cause he was checking her out. But you might have trouble getting hold of him. He took off to Ibiza this morning, and he always 'forgets' his cell, so his dad can't bug him. If that number doesn't work, call me – I have his e-mail address somewhere."

When Kendra was gone, Finn turned back to the man, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, humming under his breath.

"We done here?" He bounded forward, arms uncrossing. "Good. We have murders to solve."

He started for the door, then noticed Finn hadn't budged. "I suppose you want an introduction first. The name's Trent. I'd shake your hand, but we both know that's not going to work out."

So he was a ghost. The quip about corporeal beings should have been the tip-off.

Finn said nothing until they were in the car. The ghost – Trent – passed through the door and sat in the passenger seat. Finn never understood how they could do that. If you can walk through a chair, how can you sit on it? Whatever he'd learned in physics, apparently it didn't apply to ghosts.

"You are a hard man to get hold of," Trent said as he settled into his seat. "I've been following you all day. A couple times you glanced my way, like you saw a flicker, but that was it. That glow you've got, the one that says you're a necromancer? It's really dim. I suppose that means your powers aren't very strong. No offense."

"Necromancer?"

"That's what they call your sort, isn't it?"

Finn had no idea what his sort were called. The power to see ghosts ran in his family, skipping most, but hitting one or two every generation, to varying degrees. His mother sometimes caught flashes, but had never actually seen a ghost. His great-aunt saw faint outlines, but couldn't communicate with them. Supposedly her brother – his great-uncle – had been able to, but he'd died when Finn was in preschool.

His family presumed there were other people who could see ghosts, but they'd never given it much thought. You heard about that sort of thing all the time – spiritualists, mediums, whatever – and his family didn't see any use in sticking a name on it. It was what it was, and you learned to live with it. Or you didn't. Your choice.

"What can I do for you?" Finn asked the ghost.

"The question, sir, is what can
I
do for
you
. The answer? Help solve this case."

Finn pulled out of the lot. "You know something?"

An enigmatic smile. "I know a lot of things."

"Specific to this case?"

The ghost reached for his seat belt, cursing as his fingers passed through. Then he gave a short laugh. "Not like I need that anyway, huh? Old habits..."

"Do you know something specific to this case?"

"About what those girls said, Detective – Can I call you Finn?"

"What do you know about this case?"

"This and that."

"In other words, not much. Look, if you need something from me, ask. I'll do what I can. But I don't like games. You don't need to pretend you can help – "

"You're right that I don't know squat, but that doesn't mean I can't help." He faced Finn as they idled at a light. "You like blunt? Okay, let's be blunt. I'm bored. I've been wandering around on the other side for... years, I guess. Eventually, I suppose I'll go wherever it is I'm supposed to go, but in the meantime, I'm bored shitless. So I see you, a necromancer, trying to solve this case, and I see a chance to have some fun and do some good at the same time. Maybe that's why I'm stuck. I did some time when I was a kid, ran with some people, did some shit I regret. If I do a good deed, maybe I can get wherever it is I'm supposed to go."

Speaking of shit, Finn could smell it a mile away and Trent reeked. Finn had met rehabilitated gangbangers. If this guy was one, Finn would turn in his badge and declare himself unfit for detective work. Not a scar or tattoo to be seen. Well spoken, obviously educated... Finn wasn't enough of an optimist to think it came from prison classes. And his manner was far too relaxed for anyone who'd had repeated run-ins with the police. But that didn't mean he hadn't done things that might keep him from passing over.

When Finn said nothing, Trent went on. "Think of what I could do. You can't get a search warrant? I'll pop in and take a look. You question someone who seems jumpy? I can hang around after you leave, see if the guy does anything, calls anyone. You need someone followed discreetly? It doesn't get any more discreet than me. Best of all? When you solve this, you get all the glory. I'm the perfect silent partner."

He flashed a smile that reminded Finn of his little brother. Whenever Rick had been trying to cajole Finn into doing something he probably shouldn't, he'd smile like that – a disarming grin that made Finn feel like a spoilsport for refusing.

Maybe it was the grin, but as Finn considered the matter, he couldn't see any reason to refuse. He'd been raised to see his power as a gift to be used for good. If he could solve a murder with it, he would. If he could reassure a ghost with it, he would. And if he could use it to help a spirit cross to the other side – or even just make him feel better – he should. So he would, at least until the guy made him regret it.